The Jumper Enigma
by MorrisBismuth
Summary: In which Sherlock orchestrates a sleuthing session in John's closet.


**On with the chapter!**

I don't yet fully understand what the concept of John really is.

In fact, it is still a mystery to me why I find his company pleasant and sometimes, bordering over to necessary.

Well, reviewing all events, John has always been surrounded by so many people; He's like this homing beacon for extraterrestrials… _annoying_ extraterrestrials.

What about John is so unique I wonder? Is it his maverick background or calm and assuring persona? His physique? His features aren't too extraordinary, he's short, has a built frame though getting a little soft on the stomach which I suppose has something to do with the rapidly depleting jam reserves in our fridge; oh and the jumpers- I mean, if I was married to my work then John would be married to his jumpers (provided he had his jam for a mistress). Come to think of it, what about jumpers makes John adore them so much? It's just a piece of cloth with a couple of stitches… how did John come to value them so much? Hmm… could it be that somehow, in some way, his jumpers give him his… John—_ness._

Interesting.

Must Experiment.

"John we're out of milk."

"What?"

"Milk. We're out of milk."

"What do you mean we're out of milk? I just came with the groceries half an hour ago!"

Improvise Sherlock! "… We're out of peanut butter."

"_Peanut butter_?" John cocked his brow, looking like the epitome of disbelief "You like,-peanut butter?"

"… Yes. I like peanut butter. I like how it tastes. I was hoping you'd get some."

He stared at me without waver, his head tilted and his eyes in a squint, his lips in a stern straight line as if to solicit a more truthful answer. After 20 seconds of just doing that, his brows went up as his shoulders fell along with a sigh of surrender "Okay Sherlock. I'll get you your peanut butter."

He got up from the sofa, over to the door as the floor boards creaked along with his steps. Before stepping out he fixed his jacket's collar whilst mumbling something about "Why didn't you tell me earlier" and something like "do not burn the flat down while I'm out or else—" or something of that sort.

Of course I couldn't care to listen too much, I was busy planning in my head. The weather isn't too bad so he'd probably walk to the store which would take about ten minutes; he'd probably spend five minutes looking for the peanut butter and another two minutes deciding which brand to get. After which he'd spend another five minutes arguing with the self checkout machine and another ten to walk back. On my calculations, that gives me a little more than half an hour to look at Johns clothes and place them back in their corresponding order.

John had just shut the door and the game is on.

I make my way to his room and upon opening the door, I am greeted by the smell of berry preserves and a hospital; it was an odd combination that I didn't find particularly unpleasant.

The sermons John has given as the tinks of beakers being segregated would have you think he was a very tidy man; his closet failed to portray the fiery passion he has while telling me that a kitchen is no place to dissect brains or pickle toes. A couple of belts were strewn about the iron bar were his coats hung. I scan the closets surfaces amidst the moderate amount of clothes in search of John's jumper stash when I notice some clothes unfolded and slightly wrinkled, as if they had been rummaged through; He was in a hurry to meet someone, a woman judging from the way he so tediously groomed his hair and the fumes of perfume you could practically see fumes floating around him this morning. Who was it this week? Kandi-Kara-Kooki something.

Honestly, it hurts me to see him cahoot with such bland people; I have been the cause to the end of more than a few of Johns relationships yet he just ends up telling me, in a very loud way, to give him his privacy and after that, he doesn't seem to put up much of a fight. He makes almost no effort to reconcile with his ex at all... and based on all the crap telly we've been watching, a person should be trying to kill the person responsible for a break-up-or at least cry a little. Well, perhaps it is just my lack of emotional expertise.

Ah, here they are, jumpers.

Above the array of coats and jackets laid a wooden shelf on which stacks of shirts and sweaters laid rest; to the farthest right laid a pile of a familiar set of clothes.

The first one of the many jumpers to succeed is a blue stripped one. I remember him wearing this, it fit a little tighter than the others, especially on sleeves which showed off his arms quite well. The color was masculine, yet approachable and wore well on his tan skin. He looked very—ahem… _flattering_.

I proceeded to survey the remaining pieces of clothing and came across all the types of jumpers you could possibly conjure up; Wool, cotton, red, green, black—it's as if all the jumpers in the world had decided to reside in this one particular closet.

I had reached the end of the pile and there I was confronted by the last jumper; I took it up and held it out in front of me. It was light beige in color, similar to the color of sand, and it was knitted with a simple design that moved downwards the jumper itself. It smelt like fabric softener, it was thoroughly used based on some discoloration due to fading but not too visible when worn. So this was John's favorite. I do recall him wearing it non-stop for days during the winter months. It probably ended up at the end of the pile in an attempt to wear his other jumpers and save it for the occasions when he needs it most. He always did look so comfy in it. I slid my arms through the sleeve holes and felt the soft cotton caress my skin; it was warm and comfortably loose. No wonder why he wore it profusely.

When you look at it, this jumper isn't the prettiest thing. It's worn and stark, the design isn't unique or elegant, and it didn't scream character either but it was cozy and served its purpose.

It reminded me a lot of John himself.

John is the one of the only people who never grew threatened of my intellect; and right now I think it is because John's intelligence is of a different caliber as well. It is a brilliance that needn't the need for praise or to be shared. He unknowingly makes people feel safe and calm and special. He has an aura that lured and soothed and a way of thinking that spoke simple when I thought too complex. He had always been there when I needed someone to punch me in face or kill someone to save me, or say sorry when I've said or done something which is apparently apathetic- and call me amazing and fantastic! Yet he gets no credit, and it never bothers him. That's John, he doesn't need to be called handsome or cool or amazing and fantastic, he just does his job and suppresses all the anxiety so easily passed in our share of work.

I had begun tracing circles around a patchwork done on the area where the left shoulder should go. I found it so peculiar it was on that exact spot. This jumper really is an appropriate metaphor to John. Is this the ground that stands beneath his persona? Hmm... perhaps it feels different when worn...

After removing my grey shirt and nightgown and leaving them to fall in a pile, I slip my arms through the sleeves and pull my head through the top with a little struggle. I tug and twist to get it to fit properly as I turn to face the mirror beside John's closet door. Oh my god. John was _really_ small. The sleeves had ended more than a couple inches above my wrists and the shirt itself left just the amount of skin under my navel unclothed.

I don't feel very brilliant at all. I actually feel quite stupid. I mean look at me, I look like Mycroft when he shrunk his clothes the first time he attempted to do his laundry…

I think I'll leave the jumper wearing to John.

But I understand why he loves these so much. It reflects little aspects of him that he is subconsciously drawn to. It does have John written all over it, but only to those who look well enough. And though it looks silly on me, it is quite comfortable.

Experiment closed. Conclusion: Jumpers are fantastic, so are their owners.

I took a couple more minutes in attempting to copy John's posture and facial expressions and mentally complimenting myself at how well I had imitated him. I was ready to stop laughing at my own humor when the door opened with and accompanying creak.

"Sh—wha—Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?!" gaped a wide-eyed Watson looking more distressed than he normally was."

"What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean 'what am I doing here?' This is my room Sherlock!"

"You should be-" I looked at the clock "You should be arguing with the self-checkout machine right now!"

"Wha—What are you talking about? That's my jumper, why are you wearing my jumper?" he waved his finger up and down my person.

"Why are you home so soon?" I said, placing my hands on my hips, looking down on the floor for an explanation "Did you walk to the store?"

"No I took a cab—what does that have to do with anything?"

"Why didn't you walk?"

"It was drizzling."

"So? You could've pulled your hood up. Why waste money on getting a cab?"

"I was really tired oka- wait. That's not the point!" he sighed before turning his gaze back to me with an obvious attempt to stop his shouting "The point is, you came in my room without permission, sleuth-ed through my closet, put on my clothes and from what I came in to see, started doing catalog poses in front of my mirror. Now, I'm used to the weirdness and lack of personal space Sherlock but please, tell me, _why_?" he huffed out that last bit. His shoulders slumped and his face conveyed utter defeat.

"Just once in my life Sherlock… I'd like to know what you're thinking." he said, crossing his arms.

I... miscalculated.

**I'd love a review no matter the view. More chapters to come!**


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